


Decoy, Protection, Bodyguard

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/F, First Meetings, Handmaidens of Naboo, Loyalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-17 09:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11848599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: The first thing that registers when Sabé enters the room is that the Queen is—She is beautiful. There's no other word for it. The Queen-in-waiting is beautiful, a beauty Sabé can't hope to match (and how is she to emulate this beauty, to become this beauty when necessary?).“So you are to be the other Amidala,” the Queen says, and smiles at Sabé. And in that moment, Sabé falls absolutely, irrevocably, in love.A tale of a Queen-to-be and her handmaiden. Or, how Padmé met Sabé: a love story.





	Decoy, Protection, Bodyguard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magnetgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetgirl/gifts).



> Many thanks to my wonderful beta for their help (and on such short notice too). All remaining mistakes are, of course, mine.

_The handmaiden or squire who is chosen to be the body double of the ascending monarch does not know of her status until she is selected. Traditionally, he or she is informed of the prestige that has been accorded and given an opportunity to decline the position the night before he or she is to meet the Prince or Princess_ _ 7 _ _. There is no shame attached to declining the position of body double, for it is a dangerous task that can be undertaken only if the body double is willing and mentally and physically suitable for the task._

_ 7This is the title bestowed on the King- or Queen-in-waiting, a relic from the time when the monarch of Naboo was chosen through the principle of primogeniture rather than that of election _

—Keralla Themis; Decoy, Protection, Bodyguard: A History of the Handmaidens and Squires of Naboo, _Chapter III: The Process of Selction_ ; 2nd edition, pub. 70 ABY

 

* * *

 

 _You are going,_ Sabé thinks, as she walks (not hurries; that had been trained out of her in the early days of the program) through the corridors of the training facility, next to their head instructor, _to meet your Queen._

The Princess is, of course, not the Queen, not yet, but she is already the Queen of the twenty-five people who passed the selection process for the new queen, the queen of the five women who have been chosen as her handmaidens, and, above all, _Sabé's_ queen. Five years of training to come to this point, to become the new Queen's handmaiden, and last night, Sabé had been given an honour she did not know existed until that point. Four years of training for a Queen or King who had not yet been elected, then. Now that the Princess has been elected, she is _theirs_.

The head instructor, Colonel Nala, stops at an unassuming door, old-fashioned wood, and knocks.

“You may enter,” a voice says, from the other side of the room.

The first thing that registers when Sabé enters the room (other than the vulnerabilities she is trained to detect, of which there are very few, here—a place made with the safety of the monarch solely in mind, then) is that the Queen is—

She is _beautiful_. There's no other word for it. The Queen-in-waiting is beautiful, a beauty Sabé can't hope to match (and how is she to emulate this beauty, to _become_ this beauty when necessary? How?).

“So _you_ are to be the other Amidala,” the Queen says, and _smiles_ at Sabé. And in that moment, Sabé falls absolutely, irrevocably, in love.

She hasn't gone through long training for nothing; she keeps her composure through practise if nothing else, curtseying as she's supposed to. “Your Highness.” Then, as the Queen's words catch up with her, “You have chosen your regnal name already, Your Highness?”

“I have to keep myself occupied somehow while the transfer of powers is taking place,” the Queen says (and Sabé catches herself watching those mesmerizing lips for a moment before she tears he gaze away), “It's a pity my role in that is mostly ceremonial.”

“Out of necessity, Your Highness. The old Kings and Queens doubtless had secrets that their followers needed to clean up before their children ascended the throne.” Then she freezes, catching up with what she's said. _Dammit_ , she knows better than this, has been trained better than to allow her mouth to run. “I—”

The Queen interrupts Sabé by laughing. “I like you,” she says, tilting her head curiously. Sabé thanks all the gods she knows that she doesn't blush any more.

“Your highness—”

“It's Padmé,” the Queen says. “If we're to spend the next few years together all the time and being each other, standing on formality isn't a good idea, I think.”

Sabé shuffles awkwardly, not sure of what to say.

Colonel Nala clears her throat. “I will leave you with the Princess, Sabé. And your highness, you have Sabé to yourself for the next four days. After that you'll meet your other handmaidens.”

“Of course. Thank you very much, Colonel Nala.” The Queen—Padmé, Sabé must remember that—inclines her head graciously, and Sabé curtseys, as Colonel Nala leaves the room.

There's an awkward silence.

Just as Sabé decides that she's going to break the silence, screw protocol, the Quee—Padmé says, “I don't know about you, Sabé, but I feel like I'd prefer that we get to know each other at the shooting range rather than in this room. What do you say to that?”

“An excellent idea, your hi—Padmé.”

The Q—Padmé's eyes sparkle. “Great! Then let's go.”

They've moved some distance up the corridor before Sabé realizes they're going in the wrong direction. “Your hi—Padmé. The range is the other way.”

The Que—Padmé raises an eyebrow. “I know that there's a range in the direction I'm walking—”

“But that's the public range, and I'd very much prefer it if you used your private one.” Some part of Sabé is horrified at the fact that she's interrupted the Queen, but another part of her is busy imagining Padmé at the public range, where a stray blaster shot could _accidentally_ wind up hitting her and—

She isn't going to think about it.

Especially not when Padmé (definitely not the Queen, Sabé can't imagine the Queen doing what Padmé is doing right now) moves closer to her, _pouting._

“We're going,” Sabé says firmly (firmness, she was taught, is a good idea when your royal charges are being 'too damned stubborn for their own good', in Captain Akara's words), “to your private range, which Colonel Nala explicitly told me about yesterday so that you don't use the public range.” She turns on her heel and walks off, trusting that Padmé will follow her.

And indeed Padmé _does_ follow her, although, when Sabé sneaks a glance backwards, she's crossed her arms and is still pouting.

(Sabé carefully doesn't think about how _adorable_ it is.)

 

* * *

 

Padmé is surprisingly good with her blaster pistol (and it's hers, too, an ELG-3A she had hidden on her person). She can hit a moving target at 50 yards. Not dead centre, but still extremely good for a civilian (although, the Queen must have had _some_ level of training).

But when she moves onto blaster rifles—

“Did they actually train you with a blaster rifle?” Sabé asks, eyeing Padmé's stance critically. “Because it doesn't seem like it.”

“Well—” Padmé smiles. “We were more focused on the pistol; it seemed more important.”

It is. The Queen won't be using weapons unless as a last resort (and that hasn't happened in a long, long time), and in such a situation, a pistol would probably be more useful.

Still. “Please don't fire that when you're standing like that.” At least Padmé knows how to handle a weapon, and isn't likely to blow their heads of. It's just her positioning that needs work.

“Your grip is all wrong, you need to hold it like so. And bend your legs further, move this leg forward—yes, like that.” Sabé guides Padmé with a gentle hand on various parts of her body, pushing or pulling as necessary. She's completely focused on her task, on teaching Padmé, as she carefully adjusts Padmé's grip.

She moves around Padmé's body to lift her hand higher, and, in doing so, Padmé's hair brushes across her face.

Sabé freezes. Later, she will wonder why it was the not-quite-there touch of hair that made suddenly aware of Padmé's body, but now, all she knows, all she can think of, is the proximity of Padmé's body to her own, and of Padmé's breath, suddenly shallow, against her face. Her hand hovers over Padmé's, but she's suddenly reluctant to touch her, and the rest of her is aware of her shoulder pressing into Padmé's, the tiny gap of barely an inch between the rest of her body and Padmé's. If she leans forward just a little bit—

Sabé jumps back as if burned. She knows her cheeks are bright red, that she's blushing, but there's nothing she can do about it. “I, uh...” She breaks off, not sure what to say.

Padmé isn't flushed, despite her pale skin, but she's watching Sabé with dark, hungry eyes. Her tongue darts out and wets her lips almost unconsciously, which draws attention to them, pale but plump as they are.

This time, it's Padmé who starts and moves backwards (if carefully, in deference to the blaster rifle in her hand). “I—I think we should continue our lessons another day.”

“Of course,” Sabé says. Her voice sounds hoarse and disused even to her own ears. “And maybe—more professional instruction than me.”

“I'm sure you're the best of instructors.” Padmé seems to have recovered her composure (very quick, true, but then, she's a politician, it's a wonder she was off her guard even for the moments she was).

“I'm a good marksman, but that doesn't necessarily make me a good instructor,” Sabé says wryly. And she can do this, she can do this semblance of normalcy. “But I—I really do think we should move off the range for today.” She doesn't trust herself with a weapon for non-essential purposes, not now.

“Of course.”

Padmé goes to store the blaster rifle, and Sabé closes her eyes and takes deep breath.

She needs to _focus._

 

* * *

 

They are brought lunch in Padmé's rooms, a better lunch than Sabé has ever eaten before in the training facility, though it is still simple.

“That,” Padmé says, after they're done with the main course and nibbling on slices of blood orange, “was delicious.”

Sabé would agree, but she's busy staring at the juice dripping down Padmé's fingers, which Padmé laps up with elegant flicks of her tongue.

“Sabé.” Padmé snaps her fingers, and Sabé blinks. “You drifted off.”

“I'm sorry. I was thinking about—” Sabé casts about for a topic. “You seemed adept with a blaster—with a pistol, at least, and you didn't seem to mind handling a rifle. But your political platform when you were running for office was more...pacifist.” And there she goes again, messing everything up. She knows very well that she's not supposed to start a conversation about the Queen's politics (unless it's for the purpose of impersonating her, and this caveat was something Sabé learnt only last night).

Fortunately, though, Padmé doesn't seem to be offended, or, at least, there are no visible signs of anger on her face. “I want our peace to continue, Sabé, but that doesn't preclude self-defence. Besides, even if I was completely against violence, I don't think Colonel Nala would have allowed me to not learn to handle a blaster pistol, at least.” The last bit is said wryly.

Sabé raises an eyebrow. “And learning to use the rifle?”

“How could I resist,” Padmé asks teasingly, “when you were offering to teach me? And besides, sometimes the best form of defence is offence.”

“Suddenly going in guns blazing is pacifism?” Which Sabé had _not_ intended to say, but now that Padmé's started speaking, Sabé's curious about her—unusual views. “I didn't think you were elected to promote violence, my Queen.”

Padmé raises her chin. “I will, of course, attempt diplomacy at first, but if anyone threatens the sovereignty of my planet or the safety of my people, rest assured that I will defend my planet and my people to my dying breath. With violence, if necessary.” She's tall and commanding in that moment, even sitting cross-legged on a divan with blood orange juice dripping off her fingers, and suddenly, Sabé knows that she would follow her Queen anywhere, even to the ends of the galaxy.

Then Padmé laughs, and the moment is broken. “Besides, Sabé, I am not a pacifist. I wish for peace, but that alone does not a pacifist make.”

Sabé raises her eyebrow. “That does seem to be the central tenet of pacifism from what I know of it, though. Given its name and all.”

Sabé can _see_ Padmé draw breath to start a long explanation, pulling her shoulders back as if for a fight. “Well...”

The next two hours devolve into political and philosophical squabbling over the dessert that is still laid out. Sabé can say, honestly, that she's never been so happy arguing with someone in her entire life.

 

* * *

 

Sabé was told, last night, about the private gardens built for the monarch-in-waiting, away from the rest of the facility and from prying eyes. She and Padmé are there, now, lying on the lush green grass side-by-side, watching clouds float by in the sky in companionable silence.

At length, Padmé breaks the silence. “I must admit you are nothing like I expected, Sabé.”

Sabé had been wondering, idly, whether the cloud currently above them looked a little bit like the palace in Theed, but she snaps into awareness quickly at Padmé's words. “I—” She stops. She's not sure whether that's a good thing or bad thing, and she doesn't want to misspeak. Whether the Queen likes her or not is immaterial to her fulfilling her duties, of course, but—

Sabé _wants_ the queen to like her.

“I mean that positively!” Padmé's leaning over Sabé, suddenly, her face partially blocking the view of the sky (not that Sabé minds; Padmé has an exceptionally beautiful face, after all), and are Sabé's thoughts _that_ obvious? “You are completely unlike anything I ever imagined a guard would be, and in the best way possible.”

“Oh.” Sabé doesn't know what to say. “I—thank you.”

Padmé goes on as if she didn't hear Sabé: “I didn't expect you, Sabé. You're easy to talk to and a very wonderful person.”

Sabé's still speechless. The words, from Padmé, are almost too much; she _can't_ think about them. “I might have some terrible habits that'll make you hate me forever, you know.”

Padmé snorts and tosses a blade of grass on Sabé's face. “Sabé. I'm being serious.”

“So am I!” Sabé mock-protests. Then, “Sorry, sorry, go on.”

“I might not, now, just to spite you.” But then she belies her own words by continuing: “I don't think I've really _talked_ to anyone the way I've talked to you for some time, even to my family. I—I knew, when I chose my career, that politics is a lonely job, but it was this election that made me aware of how lonely it is.” Padmé worries her lip between her teeth for a moment, and she looks so achingly _lost_ that Sabé reaches up and presses a palm against her shoulder. “I want to serve Naboo, and protect our people, and I would have been happy being Queen no matter what, but I am glad that you're in this with me.”

Sabé doesn't know how to handle this, but at the same time she knows, knows how to talk to Padmé and be with her. It's easy, and the easiness scares her.

And that's not a place she wants to got to, now. Sabé takes a deep breath, trying to formulate her own thoughts. (And she takes her time, for she knows, already, that Padmé won't push her to speak before she's ready.) “I joined the Security Forces for the same reason. I feel—” Here she pauses, because what she's saying to Padmé she's never said to anyone before. “I feel like there's something inescapable on the horizon, something coming that we can't escape.”

She waits for Padmé to laugh at her (she's laughed at her own feelings often enough herself) but she only looks thoughtful. “I have had that same feeling, too. Our isolationist stance and neutrality is a good idea in theory, but the Republic is changing, and not for the better. I don't know how long Naboo will be safe from outer threats. Longer than most planets, maybe, and probably nothing will happen in our lifetime—”

“—But it is worrying anyway,” Sabé finishes. The relief at being _understood_ is massive. “And, I guess, what I'm trying to say is that it's my duty to protect you, and but even if it wasn't, it'd be a honour to serve under you, my Queen.” Then, daring, she takes the hand that's not propping Padmé up and kisses it, gentle and dry.

Padmé smiles at her, a radiant, almost-blinding smile.

Then she laughs, and the moment is broken. They go back to watching the clouds, and now, they make a game of it, finding shapes in the fluffy white masses. Sabé thinks that she could stay like this forever, lying on the grass with Padmé, their hands almost-but-not-quite brushing.

 

* * *

 

Sabé doesn't know how she forgot. Her briefing last night was clear on the fact that she and the Queen are supposed to share quarters at all times, and that includes nighttimes. The body double guards the monarch's sleep, too.

Padmé's rooms, granted, are much more spacious than the dormitory Sabé shares with five others. And yet there is only one bed.

“There's only one bed,” Sabé repeats. That's three times she's said that as they move about the bedroom and adjoining 'fresher completing their nightly ablutions. Sabé's changed into her nightclothes already, but Padmé is still in her day clothes, and now she abandons whatever she'd been doing in front of the mirror (Sabé hadn't looked too closely), and sits on the bed.

“So you said already,” she says, and she's laughing at Sabé. Laughing. Sabé huffs and makes a rude hand gesture, which makes her laugh even more.

“You're annoying,” Sabé grumbles. This, strangely, ceases to make Padmé stop laughing.

She's about to snatch up a pillow and hit Padmé over the head with it, never mind royal duties of protection (and somehow she's managed to get too familiar with Padmé very, very quickly), when Padmé grabs her wrist.

She moves away abruptly, unconsciously, and feels herself blush at her own obviousness. To cover the fact that she is now extremely flustered, she says, “You're not ready for bed yet.”

 _...Which. Wonderful observational skills, Sabé,_ she chides herself.

Padmé raises an eyebrow. “Isn't that your job?”

Sabé almost chokes (almost. At least this once she somehow manages to retain what she can of her composure). She had known this, technically (after all, despite her impressive training, her title is _handmaiden_ ), but she had managed to forget this fact, probably out of a sense of self-preservation. “Your highness, I don't really know how.” And her famed skill at giving excuses ( _a useful skill when dealing with nobles,_ Captain Akaraa had said dryly in the face of Sabé's reasons for being late on the assignments they were given as a part of training) is failing her, too.

“You will need to learn,” Padmé says. “After all, you'll be dressing and undressing me for the next few years, and I will probably dress and undress you a few times as well.”

That shouldn't sound so damn _suggestive_. It's her stupid brain thinking stupid things, she knows, but Sabé can't not read some meaning into Padmé's lowered eyelashes. She clears her throat. “I—I suppose so.”

The Queen raises one eyebrow. “Undress me, then.”

It's a simple, straightforward _command_ , and Sabé knows how to obey commands, at least. She _can_ do that.

She steps forward just as Padmé gets up, and they bump noses awkwardly. Sabé can feel herself blushing again. “I'm sorry, your highness.”

The Queen waves her away. “That's fine, Sabé.”

Sabé nods, forces herself to stop fidgeting nervously. Deep breaths. She can do it. Deep breaths. “Can you turn around, please?”

She steps back to make room for Padmé, and Padmé obediently turns. There's a series of ties along the back of her top, heavy cords criss-crossing each other and pulled taut. Sabé loosens the arrangement with heavy fingers before moving the cords away and apart from each other.

The back of Padmé's top opens to reveal another layer underneath, what looks like a thing undershirt, but it's difficult to remove the top layer from behind. She presses gently against Padmé's shoulder to make her turn.

Again, Padmé is obedient, moving she's facing Sabé again (Sabé carefully avoids looking at her face; she can't manage eye contact, not now).

“Arms up,” Sabé instructs. Padmé lifts her arms forward ( _she knows, of course she knows, she must have done this many times before,_ a distant part of Sabé's brain comments) and allows Sabé to pull her top off.

Her Sabé has to pause until her fingers stop trembling with desire. For Padmé's undershirt clings to the curves of her body, leaving very little to the imagination. And, Sabé discovers, she _very much_ desires Padmé.

Thank goodness for her training. She manages to compose herself somewhat, masking the fact that she's still unsteady by taking her time unhooking Padmé's heavy toolbelt and placing it down, careful of the small blaster pistol strapped to it.

Sabé makes herself kneel down (aware, suddenly, of the fact that she is on her knees before her Queen), unzip the front panel and undo the button which holds the triangular flap down, and place her fingers inside the waistband of Padmé's pants.

It's difficult not to linger with her fingers pressed against the warmth of Padmé's skin, which shifts under her fingers as Padmé moves (fidgets, Sabé would have said if the person she was undressing was anyone but the Queen—but then, Sabé is undressing Padmé _because_ she's the Queen). Through sheer force of will, she manages to pull down Padmé's pants. Then, quickly, she follows up with the shorts, resolutely _not_ looking, and motions to Padmé to step out of both.

Sabé rises and there's only one task left. She gently, almost reverently, untangles Padmé's breastband, and Padmé is fully naked.

She is _beautiful_. Her body isn't perfect—there's a little pouch of fat on her stomach, her breasts aren't perfectly even, her limbs are somewhat lanky for her body, a birthmark stretches across her belly—but the little imperfections make it more beautiful. Sabé longs to touch her properly, to feel that pale skin under her palm, suck on the tender spots on her body, run her fingers over the place where she can almost see Padmé's ribcage rise and fall. She wants to feel every single inch of Padmé—

She forces herself to look up, and meet Padmé's eyes.

A bad move, because Padmé is just as flushed as Sabé must be, and her eyes are glittering in her face. She's naked and vulnerable, and the single plait her hair is in only makes her vulnerability more obvious. Sabé is suddenly acutely conscious of the fact that she's wearing sleep pants and a shirt which, together, cover most of her body.

Suddenly, she needs to move. She gathers up Padmé's discarded clothes and begins to fold them, neatly as she has been taught, and carries them over to the chute which spirits dirty clothes away and returns them clean. Then she lays the belt on the hook made for it next to the vanity.

And then she realizes that Padmé is still naked. Padmé is naked and waiting for her to complete her tasks, and Sabé flushes anew at the thought. The she realizes that Padmé's flushing, too, and her eyes across the room. Every time she meets Sabé's gaze she blushes more deeply.

Sabé would very much like to stand here and drink in Padmé forever, but she can't. She has a task to complete.

She hurriedly takes the sleep-robe from where it has been laid out (Padmé is, after all, the Princess of Theed, and there are many people who have been assigned to tend to her needs) and moves behind Padmé, holding it up to to help Padmé into it.

Padmé holds still for Sabé to tie up the robe properly, and Sabé attempts to ignore the many, many times their bodies brush, a task made difficult by the jolt of electricity that seems to shoot through Sabé every time she brushes against Padmé.

Soon, though, Padmé is dressed again, and she moves away from Sabé. And—something imperceptible changes, and the not-quite-mask is back on her face, all traces of the earlier blush gone, Queen-in-waiting once more. “Well,” she says, “let's get to bed, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly, sharing a bed after—that is not as awkward as Sabé thought it would be.

This is probably at least partly because Padmé's breaths even out as soon as her head touches the bed. Sabé can't make herself sleep. Thoughts are chasing themselves in circles around her head, thoughts of the Queen and protection and duty and _Padmé_ , and she can't make herself stop thinking.

_Dammit._

She can't—

Or rather, she won't do this. She could, but she won't, because she was trained properly, because she knows her duty. Sabé loves her planet, and trained in service of her planet, and she's going to do the right thing no matter how much she, personally, doesn't want to.

She doesn't want to.

She doesn't want to, and, what's more, she knows that Padmé wouldn't want her to. _I'm glad you're in this with me_ , she had said, and Sabé would have been glad to spend all of Padmé's reign with her, but she can't. She can't endanger her Queen because her feelings get in the way of protecting her properly. Whatever support she could have provided Padmé pales beside the necessity of keeping her alive and fit to rule.

And so, even though she doesn't want to, she must.

She knows what she must do, and she knows that she's doing the right thing, doing what is best for everyone. And yet, that night, she lies in bed listening to Padmé breathe and weeps.

She weeps for five years of training gone to waste, for one of the most prestigious positions on the planet and a lifetime's work given up. And she weeps, too, for Padmé and what can never be.

 

* * *

 

Sabé steals away early the next morning, forcing herself not to linger and drink in Padmé's sleeping form. She's going to find Colonel Nala and request a transfer. And, if that doesn't work, she'll resign.

She doesn't _want_ to do this, and all the emotions of last night rush back. She wants to spend as much time with the Queen as possible, but she knows what she must do. _It's the right thing,_ she tells herself. _You're protecting the Queen._

“Yes, Sabé?”

“Colonel Nala,” and Sabé finds that she's trying not to speak, her heart and mind and body all at war with each other. Fortunately (or unfortunately), her mind wins. “I wish to hand over my duties to someone else, and be transferred to another division.”

“You do?” Colonel Nala raises an eyebrow. “And why do you deem that necessary?”

This is the part Sabé dreaded most, but she must go through with it. “I believe that there is an an—attraction between me and the Qu—the Princess, or, um, an attraction on my part at least, which would make it difficult to maintain the necessary relationship between us.”

“An _attraction_?” Colonel Nala's voice is cool, and Sabé is suddenly afraid. The promise had been that she could be transferred or could give up her job and go, at any time, because the monarch cannot be protected by unwilling people, but—

But what if a her transgression is so massive that—

 _Stop,_ Sabé thinks to herself. _Stop_. “Yes, ma'am, an attraction. And—I know that a transfer may not be possible, and I'm willing to resign if necessary.”

Colonel Nala regards her for a long moment. Then, unbelievably, she _smiles_. “I think there's no need to transfer your duties, Sabé. You and the Princess Naberrie will both be fine.”

What? “Ma'am?”

“In any other case, I _would_ have transferred you to a different division,” Colonel Nala says, “but in the case of a monarch and body double, this does not pose an issue. You are going to _be_ the same person, essentially—attraction on either of your parts, whether unreciprocated or mutual, will not impede the execution of your duties.”

“But—”

“There is enough precedence,” Colonel Nala adds, “that I am sure of this.”

Sabé is—

She's stunned. And elated, and overjoyed, and only her training prevents her from pinching herself. (And curious about what Colonel Nala is implying, but that's a small part of her that's been consumed by other emotions/)

“You may go, Sabé.” Then, when Sabé doesn't respond, still caught up in her surprise, “You are dismissed.”

At the order, her training takes over. Sabé collects herself, bows, and leaves.

 

* * *

 

When Sabé knocks and enters Padmé's rooms, she finds Padmé standing, her back to the elaborate tapestries on the far wall. There's something dark and unsettling in her eyes, and Sabé finds herself swallowing. _You have nothing to fear from her._

“Sabé,” she greets. “Sit down.”

Sabé sits. There's only the one futon in this room, which Padmé is sitting on, so Sabé makes sure to sit as far as she can from Padmé. She doesn't claim to know the Queen yet, not well, (completely fallen for her though she may be) but the tone is unlike anything she's every heard from her before.

“I heard about your visit to Colonel Nala.” Padmé's face is expressionless, her voice even. She looks straight at Sabé, a look that sends chills up her spine.

Sabé goes still. “I—I don't—I—” She's fumbling. Fumbling isn't going to help. She should have been trained out of the fumbling, but apparently Padmé brings out the worst in her. “I don't suppose you'd tell me what exactly she told you.”

“She told me,” Padmé says, and she's still not letting a single glimpse of her feelings onto her face, “that you felt that your—attachment to me, such as it is, would impede the proper execution of your duties.”

“Oh. ” Sabé doesn't, at this moment, have words to express herself. “I—”

Padmé speaks over her. “Do you”—here she pauses for the moment—“do you feel any attraction to me?”

Here it is, then. The jump. Sabé cannot look at the Queen, and instead, stares at the tapestry next to her head. “I do.”

Silence. Sabé doesn't turn and look. She doesn't want to see the look on the Queen's face, because she knows there are only going to be two outcomes—either she's dismissed from the service of the Queen, or they go on as they are, but infinitely more awkward.

“First,” she says, “I need you to know that whatever concerns you have are to be brought to _me_ if they affect me directly. Not to Colonel Nala, not to whoever my head of security ”

Sabé nods. There is a bite of steel in the Queen's voice that Sabé somehow, despite the fact that she has never heard it before, recognizes at anger. Anger that was caused by _her_.

“Sabé,” the Queen snaps, “I need you to reply when I speak to you.”

“Yes, your highness.” Sabé bows her head, but she still can't look directly at Padmé. She _deserves_ to be dismissed, after this performance; she's lost all the poise that was carefully instilled in her, poise that she was supposed to keep no matter what.

“That being said—” The Queen stops, and sighs. “Sabé. Look at me.” Her voice is firm, unyielding. Sabé cannot disobey a direct order (would not, even if she could, and that tone sends a thrill down her spine which is why she's still not sure—but it doesn't matter, because she's about to be dismissed from the Queen's service), and so she turns her head.

Padmé's eyes meet her own, and Sabé feels as if the wind has been knocked out of her. She can't speak; her throat is clenched up. She's extremely aware of Padmé's body, oh so close to her own. She is abruptly aware that she's trembling.

“Sabé,” Padmé says, and to Sabé, it seems like Padmé's voice is coming from afar, “Sabé, I'm attracted to you too.”

Oh. Oh. Sabé doesn't look away from Padmé; she can't. She knows what those words mean, and—

And she cannot yet think, properly, but she lifts one hand and presses it against Padmé's jaw as Padmé's hands come to her, one on her free hand, the other on Sabé's waist. Padmé's skin feels smooth beneath her own, and Padmé is drawing circles on the cloth of her dress with a finger. The world, around them, seems still.

At length, Padmé breaks the silence. “I don't think—” Padmé stops, and for once, she seems to be at a loss for words.

“We need more time,” Sabé fills in. She's treading carefully, still—she doesn't know Padmé, not really, not yet, doesn't know the point at which Padmé ends and Queen Amidala begins, and without that knowledge this is—difficult. “We need more time, and we need to know each other.”

“Yes,” Padmé agrees, absently. “Yes.” But she doesn't withdraw her hand from Sabé's; she's actually moving _forward,_ moving closer to Sabé.

“I think it's in our best interests—” Sabé begins, but she's cut off by Padmé's mouth on her own, a press of lips against hers. For a moment, she's still, but then she responds, her hands rising to clutch at Padmé's dress, opening her mouth and urging in Padmé's tongue—

She breaks away. It takes effort, but she extricates herself from Padmé's hold, and says (daring, to address a monarch so, but), “Padmé.”

“I'm sorry,” Padmé says, but a smile stretches across her face, and she doesn't move her body away from Sabé's. “I thought we should start as we intend to go on, and I do intend to kiss you quite a bit.”

“And I intend to kiss you, too, my lady, and—more,” Sabé says. Padmé shifts, again, and a sudden electric tension runs through Sabé's spine. Suddenly, it is unbearable. She wants—but she doesn't know, not right now, and so she stares at Padmé, long and hard, her face as ridiculous as she can make it, eyes scrunched up and nose wrinkled upwards, tongue out at an angle and mouth and cheeks distorted.

They both begin to laugh at the same time, and it's as if a dam has been broken—once they start laughing, neither of them seem to be able to stop, clutching at each other in exaggerated hilarity (Sabé knows that she's not _that_ funny; it can't only be the face she made that triggered this attack of hysteria).

After some time, though, Padmé sobers. “I—I care for you already, Sabé, there is nothing I can do about that. It's my nature to fall fast and hard, even though I know nothing about you yet.” For a moment, she looks achingly _young_ , and Sabé remembers that young is exactly what she is, young and inexperienced and with little knowledge of a life outside politics.

“You and I are very similar, then,” Sabé says, and takes Padmé's hand in her own, stroking the warm skin gently with her fingers. “Don't worry, my Queen, we'll learn how to handle this together.”

“Together,” Padmé repeats, and kisses Sabé again.

 

* * *

 

 _There forms a strange symbiotic relationship between the monarch and his or her body double. This relationship may or may not be sexual, depending on the proclivities and attractions of both parties. There has rarely been a monarch and body double pair who have not had what has been described as an 'eerily codependent relationship'_ _ 3 _ _._

 _Scholars posit that the extended time the body double spends 'being' the monarch plays a role in this close relationship_ _ 4 _ _. The implicit power difference between the monarch and his or her footsoldiers or handmaidens is not so strongly present between monarch and body double. Enforced closeness and intimate knowledge of each other's habits and patterns result in a reduced level of formality (though the knowledge that the body double is present in service to the monarch is, of course, an important aspect of the relationship)._

_ 3 II: Mornas (43 ABY) _

_ 4Hela (32 ABY), Mornas (60 ABY), XV: Rabantin (56 ABY) _

—Keralla Themis; Decoy, Protection, Bodyguard: A History of the Handmaidens and Squires of Naboo, _Chapter X: Body Double and Monarch: A Spiritual Connection?_ ; 2nd edition, pub. 70 ABY


End file.
